"Any scars or marks?"

"Certainly not!"

"That's a pity; although you seem to think otherwise. Age?"

"We-ell, twenty, perhaps."

"Add five. Say twenty-five."

"What for?" demanded Sedgwick indignantly.

"I'm allowing for the discount of romance. Did you notice her boots?"

"Not particularly; except that she was always spick and span from head to foot."

"Humph! Was it pretty warm the last week she called on you?"

"Piping!"

"Did she show it?"

"Never a bit. Always looked fresh as a flower."

"Then, although she came far, she didn't walk far to get here. There's a road back of the hill yonder, and a little copse in an open field where a motor-car has stood. I should say that she had driven herself there and come across the hill to you."

"Could we track the car?" asked Sedgwick eagerly.

"No farther than the main road. What is the latest she ever left here, when she arrived afoot?"

"Once she stayed till half past six. I begged her to stay and dine; but she drew into herself at the mere suggestion."

"Half past six. Allowing for a half past seven dinner, and time to dress for it, she would have perhaps twelve to fifteen miles to go in the car.

That figures out with the saddle ride, too. Now, we have, as your visitor, a woman of rather inadequate description eked out by some excellent sketches-young, pa.s.sably good-looking (don't lose your temper, Sedgwick); pa.s.sably good-looking, _at least_; with command of some wealth; athletic, a traveler, well informed. The name she gave is obviously not her own; not even, I judge, her maiden name."

Sedgwick turned very white. "Do you mean that she is a married woman?"

he demanded.

"How could you have failed to see it?" returned the other gently.

"But what is there to prove it?"

"Proof? None. Indication, plenty. Her visits, in the first place. A young girl of breeding and social experience would hardly have come to your studio. A married woman might, who respected herself with full confidence, and knew, with the same confidence, that you would respect her. And, my dear boy," added Kent, with his quiet winning smile, "you are a man to inspire confidence. Otherwise, I myself might have suspected you of having a hand in the death of the woman on the beach."

"Never mind the woman on the beach. This other matter is more than life or death. Is that flimsy supposition all you have to go on?"

"No. Her travel. Her wide acquaintance with men and events. Her obvious poise."

"All might be found in a very exceptional girl, such as she is. Why shouldn't she tell me, if she were married?"

"Oh, don't expect me to dissect feminine psychology. There I'm quite beyond my depth. But you'll note she doesn't seem to have told you any slightest thing about herself. She's let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, prey on _your_ damask cheek."

"Confound your misquotations! It's true, though. But there might be many reasons."

"Doubtless. Only, my imagination doesn't seem to run to them. And reverting to tangible fact, as clenching evidence, there are her gloves, which she always wore."

"What about her gloves?"

"You never saw her left hand, did you?"

"Oh, I see. You mean the wedding-ring. Well, I suppose," continued Sedgwick, with a tinge of contempt in his voice, "she could have taken off her ring as easily as her gloves."

There was no answering contempt in Chester Kent's voice as he replied, "But a ring, constantly worn and then removed, leaves an unmistakable mark. Perhaps she gave you greater credit for powers of observation than you deserve. I'm afraid, Frank, that she is a married woman; and I'm sure, from reading between your lines, that she is a good woman. What the connection between her and the corpse on the beach may be, is the problem. My immediate business is to discover who the dead woman is."

"And mine," said Sedgwick hoa.r.s.ely, "to discover the living."

"We'll at least start together," replied Kent. "Come!"

Capacity for silence, that gift of the restful G.o.ds, was possessed by both men. Intent, each upon his own thoughts, they strode up the hillside and descended into a byway where stood a light runabout, empty.

Throwing on the switch, Kent motioned his companion to get in. Twenty minutes of curving and dodging along the rocky roads brought them to the turnpike, in sight of the town of Annalaka. Not until then did Kent offer a word.

"The inquest is set for eleven o'clock," he said.

"All right," said Sedgwick with equal taciturnity.

They turned a corner, and ran into the fringe of a crowd hovering about the town hall. Halting his machine in a bit of shade, Kent surveyed the gathering. At one point it thickened about a man who was talking eagerly, the vocal center of a small circle of silence.

"Elder Dennett," said Kent, "back from Cadystown. You'll have to face the music now."

"I'm ready."

"You're ready for attack. Are you ready for surprises?"

"No one is ever ready for surprise, or it wouldn't be surprise, would it?"

"True enough. One word of warning: don't lose your head or your temper if the suspicion raised against you by Dennett is strengthened by me."

"By you!"

"Unfortunately. My concern is to get to the bottom of this matter. There is something the sheriff knows that I don't know. Probably it is the ident.i.ty of the body. To force him into the open, it may be necessary for me to augment the case against you."

"Ought I to be ready for arrest?"

"Hardly probable at present. No; go on the stand when you're called, and tell the truth, and nothing but the truth."

"But not the whole truth?"

"Nothing of the necklace. You won't be questioned about that. By the way, you have never kept among your artistic properties anything in the way of handcuffs, have you?"